Chapter 3 - Reaper
I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and down it in one burning swallow. It doesn't help. Nothing will, not with her scent still clinging to my skin from the ride. Evelyn. Even her name feels different in my mouth.
Ghost watches me from across the bar, his face neutral. "You okay, boss?"
"Fine."
"Right." He nods toward the hallway leading to my quarters. "So, we're harboring trafficking victims now?"
"We're getting information," I correct him, though we both know it's more than that. "Those Vultures MC are moving into our territory. Using Pine Haven as a pipeline."
"And the girl staying in your room? That's just for information too?"
I fix him with a hard stare. "Watch yourself, brother."
Ghost raises his hands in surrender. "Just asking what everyone's going to be wondering."
"She's off-limits. So is this conversation." I check my watch. "How long has Blade been with our guest?"
"About forty minutes." Ghost refills my glass without being asked. "Viper's with him."
I nod, leaving the second drink untouched. I need a clear head. "I'm going to check on them. Keep an eye on things here."
"Always do."
The night air is crisp as I cross the compound to the weathered shed we use for storage, and occasionally, for conversations that require privacy. Two prospects stand guard outside, straightening when they see me approach.
"Anyone come by?" I ask.
"No, sir," the younger one responds. "Just you."
I nod. "Keep it that way."
The interior of the shed is dimly lit by a single hanging bulb. The air smells of blood, sweat, and fear. Blade stands over our prisoner, who's zip-tied to a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. Viper leans against the far wall, cleaning his fingernails with a knife.
"How's our guest?" I ask, closing the door behind me.
Blade turns, a grim smile on his face. Blood spatters his knuckles and shirt. "Stubborn. But getting more chatty by the minute."
The biker spits blood onto the floor. His face is a mess. One eye swollen shut, lip split in multiple places. But his uncovered eye holds nothing but defiance.
"You dead men," he slurs through broken teeth. "You don’t know who you fuck with."
I approach slowly, pulling up a folding chair to sit directly in front of him. "That's where you're wrong. I know exactly who we're fucking with. The Vultures MC. Moving west from Chicago, using small towns as distribution points for your human merchandise."
Something flickers in his one good eye. Surprise, maybe.
"What I don't know," I continue, "is how long you've been operating in Pine Haven, how many girls you've moved through, and where you're taking them. That's what you're going to tell me."
He laughs, a wet, gurgling sound. "I’ll tell you nothing."
I lean forward, close enough to smell his sour breath. "Look at me. Really look. Do you know who I am?"
"Trash," he spits.
"I'm Jackson Kane. They call me Reaper." I let that sink in. "I earned that name in Kandahar. Before the Outlaw Order. Before I decided to play by some rules."
His eye widens slightly. Good. He's heard of me.
"Blade," I say without looking away from our prisoner. "Show him what happens when he doesn't answer my questions."
Blade steps forward, a pair of pliers in his hand. His bravado falters.
"Wait," he says. "Wait. What do you want to know?"
"Everything," I reply. "Starting with your operation here. How long?"
"Three months," he answers quickly. "This is just the transit point. Girls come, stay few days, then move. Sometimes there are special auctions like today."
"Where to?"
He hesitates, and Blade moves closer.
"Vegas!" he blurts. "Final destination is Vegas. High rollers pay premium for fresh merchandise."
My stomach turns at the casualness with which he discusses selling human beings. I think of Evelyn, sleeping in my room. Of the hollow look in her eyes. Of Emma, who could have been one of these girls if fate had been crueler.
"How many girls have you moved through Pine Haven?"
"Maybe... forty? New shipment every two to three weeks."
Forty lives. Forty daughters, sisters, friends. "And the bar? How long has that been your front?"
"One month. Before, we use old motel outside town."
I nod to Blade, who makes a note. We'll check the motels next.
"Your boss," I continue. "Who runs this operation?"
The biker goes pale. "I cannot say. He’ll kill me."
"And you think I won't?" I ask softly.
"You need me alive. For information."
"I have the information now." I stand up, towering over him. "What I need is a message sent."
Fear finally registers on his battered face. "Wait! His name is Charles. Charles Morrow. Chicago-based but expanding west. Very dangerous man."
"Charles," I repeat, committing the name to memory. "And how many men does he have in Pine Haven?"
"Twelve, maybe fifteen. Most at second location."
"Which is where?"
"Warehouse. Industrial area north of town. By old railway."
I exchange glances with Blade. We know the place.
"Anything else you want to tell me? Last chance to be useful."
The biker licks his bloody lips. "New shipment coming. Two days. Girls from Eastern Europe. Very valuable."
"How many?"
"Ten. Maybe twelve."
I nod to Blade and Viper. "We're done here."
"What about him?" Viper asks, tilting his head toward the prisoner.
I consider our options. Killing him would be easiest. But dead men don't spread fear. Dead men don't carry warnings.
"Clean him up," I decide. "Then take him to the county line. One working leg, one working arm. Let him crawl back to Charles with a message: Pine Haven is Outlaw Order territory. Anyone trafficking humans through our town gets put down."
Relief washes over the biker's face at the realization he'll live. He doesn't understand that men like Charles don't tolerate failure. His life expectancy can be measured in hours once he delivers my message.
Not my problem.
I leave the shed, gulping in the clean night air. Violence has always been part of my life—first in the military, then in the club. I've made peace with that. But trafficking women? Children? That crosses a line I cannot abide.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ghost: *All quiet. Your guest still sleeping.*
I check the time. Nearly 3 AM. I should sleep, but my mind is racing with plans. We need to hit the warehouse before the new shipment arrives. Need to coordinate with our allies in neighboring territories. Need to prepare for Charles's inevitable retaliation.
Instead of heading back to the main building, I find myself walking toward my motorcycle. The night is clear, stars spread across the sky like scattered diamonds. I start the bike, keeping the engine quiet as I roll out of the compound.
The road calms me. Always has. The rhythm of the machine beneath me, the wind against my face. Out here, I'm not Reaper, President of the Outlaw Order. I'm just a man trying to outrun his demons.
Tonight, those demons wear Evelyn's face.
I ride for an hour, circling Pine Haven's perimeter, mentally mapping the routes the Vultures MC must use. By the time I return to the compound, my mind is clearer. I have a plan.
The main building is quiet when I enter. Ghost has gone to bed, leaving only Ace on watch. He nods as I pass, not asking questions. Good man.
I pause outside my bedroom door, listening. No sound from within. I could sleep on the couch in the common room, but I need to check on her first. Make sure she's still there. Still safe.
I knock softly. No response. I use my key to unlock the door, opening it just enough to peer inside.
The bed is empty, still made. For a moment, panic grips me.
She's gone, escaped, vulnerable out there with Vultures MC hunting for their missing merchandise, until I spot her on the floor.
She's curled in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, back against the wall.
Even in sleep, she's positioned to see the door, to have warning if someone enters.
A soldier's instinct. A survivor's caution.
Something twists in my chest at the sight. She wouldn't even use my bed, too afraid or too proud. She sleeps like someone who expects to be attacked. I know that posture. I've slept that way myself, in countries where closing your eyes could mean never opening them again.
I should leave, give her privacy. Instead, I find myself entering the room, moving silently to the closet where I keep spare blankets. I select the softest one and approach her, slowly not to wake her up.
Her face in sleep is different. Younger. The hard wariness that shields her green eyes is gone, replaced by a vulnerability that makes my hands clench into fists. Someone did this to her. Someone broke her trust so completely that she sleeps like a hunted animal.
I drape the extra blanket over her gently, holding my breath when she stirs. She murmurs something unintelligible, then settles again, pulling the new blanket tighter around herself.
"You're safe," I whisper, though I know she can't hear me. "No one will hurt you here."
It's a promise I intend to keep, even if I have to burn Charles's entire operation to the ground. Even if I must put a bullet in the man himself.
I back away, settling into the chair at my desk. I'll sleep here tonight, upright. Stand guard, though she doesn't know it. It's not comfortable, but I've slept in worse conditions.
As I watch her breathe, slow and steady in the dim light filtering through the curtains, I acknowledge the truth I've been avoiding since I saw her on that auction stage.
This isn't just about territory. Or even justice.
This is about her. Evelyn. The woman who looked at me with equal parts fear and defiance. Who sees me as just another monster but chose me anyway over the devils she knew.
I don't know what that says about either of us.
All I know is that for the first time in years, I feel something other than the cold detachment that's kept me alive. Something dangerous. Something that could get us both killed if I'm not careful.
And as I drift toward sleep, one thought circles in my mind: I will protect her, even if it means becoming the monster she thinks I am.